Friday, May 29, 2009

Birth Stories

I love hearing birth stories. I don't know what it is. I don't care if you had the worst experience or the best. I don't care if it was euphoric or if you were knocked out for half of it. I'm like a preteen in a horror movie, I can't seem to focus on anything but your birth story. I want to know the details (okay, not the details) but the good stuff, or the bad. I love hearing how they had a hard time getting your epidural in or how the sun came out just as the baby started crying or how your crazy aunt Ethel burst into the room mid-push. That stuff makes me happy.

But I don't tell my birth stories. Hardly ever. I like to, but people look at me like I'm crazy every time. Ethan was stillborn, so that story depresses people. And I get it. It's a depressing story. And about two minutes in, when I start crying, that doesn't help. The girls were both c-sections and for some strange reason, people don't seem to think that there's any story to a planned, scheduled c-section. What, you showed up on time, had some anesthesia and got cut? Greeeaaaat. What a wonderful story.

I have stories, though. Oh, do I have stories. I have the anesthesiologist who couldn't get the spinal in and stuck me 11 times. I have the near hallucinations I had post partum when I was sure I'd never get to hold my baby because she was dying. I have the screaming, and I mean screaming baby coming down the hall and my assurance that it was mine, even though I'd never heard her cry and then was right and she screamed right up until that nurse put her in my arms and then she was FINE. I have the time The Husband and I tried to room in with the baby and we didn't even make it to midnight. I have the crappy hospital photographer who did such a bad job, I just did it myself. I have the nurse who read my chart every time she came in and then proceeded to give me "new mommy" instruction.


But I don't tell those stories, because I say scheduled c-section and then all hell breaks loose. Some days, I get "Why?" "Did you know that isn't good for the baby?" "What was wrong with her?" Some days I get attacked. One day I answered the why question honestly (Brynna was showing as 10 lbs. on the ultrasound and was three weeks early and they proceeded to tell me for ten minutes how inaccurate those things are. Never mind the fact that she did, in fact, weigh ten pounds. Once, I had a woman tell me that it was a pity that I'd never get to experience the orgasmic beauty and joy of a natural childbirth. Ethan was born naturally, and that was enough for me, thank you.

Some days, I don't get any of that, though. I just get blank stares. Like, oh really, where's the story in that? Do you people watch A Baby Story? Like half of those births are c-sections and there is enough story there to film and broadcast on national TV.

Anyway, I'm digressing into whininess and I really didn't mean to. The point is that I love birth stories. Some day, I'll post all of mine on here. And you can ignore them, if you want. Or if you are like me, you can grab some popcorn, pull up the screen and read with the intensity usually saved for train wrecks all about my intestines pulled out onto my belly and the gross stuff they make you drink to keep you from throwing up, and Motown on the radio in the OR. I'll tell you about my (must be part of that hallucination thing) memory of the drs. sharpening the scalpel while that insane 13 year old girl poked me repeatedly in the back with the worlds longest needle.

For now, tell me one of yours.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Do You Like Cows?

I hate it when my past comes back to haunt me. I mean, I'm not running for office (although I am now a proud member of the Montessori board - look out Montessori Moms, here I come) so don't start scheming about all the embarrassing stories you know about me. But sometimes, little pieces of my past, tiny, tiny regrets come knocking on my door.

The other day, I was reading a conversation on Facebook between two of my friends who I have known since high school. One of these friends, I have kinda kept up with even without Facebook and the other, not so much. In the course of this conversation one friend, we'll call him Raul called the other friend, we'll call him Monty by an interesting name: Mr. Clever.

Suddenly, I was an embarrassed, blushing 11th grader, trying desperately not to cry in front of everyone.

We were arguing about something (or talking about something, I don't remember). I got flustered and frustrated and here was this cute boy making not so nice comments about my intelligence, or lack thereof (Wow - I'm blushing just writing this). I was trying so hard not to cry, trying so hard to keep looking cool above all else. And I called him Mr. Clever. Actually, I believe what I said was "Well, aren't you clever, Mr. Clever."

And then the Earth opened up and ate me whole. Or not. But, wow, did I wished for it. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I would be mocked for all eternity. It would be worse than asking the cutest senior during my freshman year if he liked cows. (I was trying to think of something funny from Monty Python because he was into Monty Python and... Oh, nevermind... There is no explanation of that.) Because at least that was on the phone and the hearers were limited.

But here I stood in the Cafetorium (don't even ask) making an utter fool out of myself. Sounding like an offended old woman in the grocery store. Heck, who am I kidding, my grandma is wittier than that.

I could have run, I could have crawled under the table and pretended to be invisible. Hey, I was driving by this point, I could have gone the hell home. But I didn't. I stood there, trying not to look shocked at my own stupidity and tried to cover it. Tried to look like I had sounded like that on purpose. Tried to look like it didn't matter to me what anyone thought, because I was cool like that. Nonconformist and all. I needed no one. I am an island. I may have even laughed. But not in that "Wow, what did I just say" genuine kind of laugh. No, in that "I meant to do that. Don't look at me anymore." kind of laugh.

I don't know if they even remember that story. It may have taken on it's own life by now. (Although, I don't think I'll post a notice of this entry on my Facebook - just in case, you know.) But reading those two, tiny, insignificant words, I was an awkward teenager, trying to be cool again. I was standing there wishing for a hole to fall into. A car to come through the wall. Someone else to collapse in a seizure. Anything. Anything to make that go away.

I'd like to say that I've grown since then. And I guess I have. I don't try nearly so hard these days. And I genuinely don't care about what most people think now, and those whose opinions do matter to me, I can at least be honest about. But I still say stuff like that. Still ask the cute boys if they like cows and get all mad and flustered when they don't think I'm perfect. Only now it's less the cute boys and more the professional peers, or fellow bloggers or sometimes, on a very rare occasion... the cute boys.

Monday, May 25, 2009

The Triumphant Return of What's In My Crochet Bag

Okay, so I know I promised this on Friday, but I've decided to move the special to Mondays, because 1. it gives me all weekend to get around to taking pictures and 2. it means that I don't have to think as hard to come up with something to write about on Mondays.

So, with no further ado...

What's in my Crochet Bag!

My church group chooses a mission each year to help the community. In the past, we've made blankets for displaced kids, collected suitcases for foster children, painted memory boxes for grieving parents, and painted a women's shelter (but that was before I joined). This year, we are making chemo hats. There are a few goals to a good chemo cap. 1. Warm, or not. One of the cancer survivors in our group tells us that she really needed a warm cap to sleep in, but a lot of the patterns I've found were kinda lacy, so I'm guessing that some (women especially) like pretty ones for day wear. 2. Tight. Because of the hair loss during chemo, the caps need to fit those of us with hair fairly snugly to ensure that they will fit those without. 3. Cheery. No one wants a depressing hat to make them more depressed.


I know the gray and white doesn't seem to define cheeriness, but I think it's happy looking. And very warm and slightly snug. For those of you who are experienced in the fiber arts, you may have said, "Hey, that's knitted. I thought Jessi couldn't knit." You would be right. On both counts. This fabulous chapeau was created using a complete cheater tool known as a knitting loom.
These are my looms. It's basically a very methodical method of wrapping and hooking and in the end you have a hat. This is my second try and I'm sure any experienced knitter (or shopper) can look at it and pick out at least 30 mistakes (that's when I stopped counting). But trust me, waaaay better than my first attempt. Now, I know that these looms will not sate me for long. I mean, I still think that sooner or later I'm going to end up with "I Can Knit, for Dummies!" But in the meantime, I'm knitting hats. Sort of.

The flower is crochet. Lion Brand newsletter has been featuring some crochet flowers and it's very exciting and all, and I made a chrysanthemum. (I have since lost it. I swear I was going to post a picture and share the hilarity.) It looked like a big yellow yarn ball, but without the balliness. It was kinda sad. So, I made this flower up. It's my first original pattern. If you are interested, scroll to the bottom. It's not like I've invented the wheel, but I am quite proud.

On a side note, I have felt a good deal of guilt about calling this (periodic at best) feature "What's in my Crochet Bag," because of my complete lack of crochet bag. I have a crochet basket and a few project bags that are holding half blankets and such, but last week, I dug frantically through my closet at 7:25 a.m. to come up with a bag to hold my scrap yarn to take to the hat-making-meeting. And I'm pretty excited to announce that it worked out quite well and while I'm keeping my huge crochet basket and my handful of project bags, I know have a general crochet bag. For things like this. The looms even fit.

For some reason, in this picture all you can really see is yarn, but it's a cool bag. It's last summer's purse, (which makes me think my purses are too freakin' big) but it's working out really well.

Crochet Five Petal Flower (by Jessi)
Ch 4. Slip stitch to first chain, forming a loop.
Rnd. 1: Ch 1. Sc 15. Slip st to first sc.
Rnd. 2: In first sc, 1 sc and 2 dc. In second sc, 2 dc and 1 sc. *Slip st in next sc. In next sc, 1 sc and 2 dc. In next sc, 2 dc and 1 sc. Repeat from * three more times to form five petals. Slip st. to last sc. Fasten off.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Crochet Chat

I have recently been reading some knitting blogs. Which is weird for me, because I only tried to knit that once and nearly clawed my eyes out and have maintained for years that I have absolutely no interest in knitting. I have been reading some derisive comments about crocheters, though and I feel like I read the knitting blogs because we have a lot of the same interests in pattern adaptation, yarn, fiber in general, charity needlecraft, etc. So, I have read this knitting meme on a few blogs (none of them were bashing the hooked among us, by the way - all the ones I regularly support are very nice people) and I thought I would adapt it to crochet and see what happens. Tomorrow I promise pictures of my current craftiness.
1.) How did you learn to crochet? My mom taught me to crochet when I was a kid, but it didn't take. When I went to GSP in high school, I took it as an extra-curricular. I was in a class of about ten girls being taught by a football coach/philosophy professor. What made the class especially interesting, though, was that there were two girls in there who were legally blind, so we learned by feel. For years, until I started doing more complex patterns, I could (and did) crochet in the dark - in movie theatres, when my roommate was asleep, etc.

2.) Did you have a teacher or any outside guidance? Well, it started with the professor at GSP, but my mom is pretty good, so she helped me out when I got stuck and taught me how to read a pattern and such. She also introduced me to thread crochet, which I LOVE!!

3.) How was it in the beginning? That's the great thing about crochet, it's as hard as you make it. We learned granny squares first and I could do a granny square in my sleep after about a week. It's not hard to learn because there are so few stitches. It only gets complicated when you are ready to complicate it. If you wanted, you could make a whole career out of granny square afghans without ever breaking a sweat. Or you could spend 35 hours on an intricate doily the size of a dinner plate. It's all up to your wants and needs.

4.) How long did it take to learn to love to crochet? If we strike the time as a kid that I barely remember, it was pretty instantaneous. I was always the type that needs something to do with my hands. I love to read, but that's about the only activity I can do all by itself. I have to do two things at once: cook and fold laundry, watch TV and crochet, write and play Vampire Wars. Crochet is easy to do while you do something else, especially watch TV. You don't have to watch every stitch unless it's a really hard pattern and it's easy to put down in mid-row and pick back up when the suspenseful part is over.

5.) What was your first project? I made a big ole pile of Granny Squares. At some point I tried to put them together into a blanket, but I don't think I ever got that part finished. I did make a blanket out of granny squares. It was a rainbow pattern and was supposed to fit a king sized bed. After about 7 years of putting it down and picking it up, I finally finished it, threw it on the only king sized bed in the house and discovered that it drug the floor on three sides. So, I put it in a box, where it still resides today.

6.) What do you wish you had made for a first project? My second project was a beret and I really loved it. I loved it so much that I've probably made 50 since. It's easy to resize or rework to fit different people, you can make it out of any yarn you have, it doesn't even take much so it's a good remnant project and you can wear it, unlike a pile of granny squares.

7.) Why do you love crochet? (I added this one) I love crochet because it's so adaptable to what you want out of it. When I am stressed, I can do something simple and calming, when I am mad, I can take it out on a really difficult pattern and it calms me. Mostly, it calms me. It's portable (unlike a lot of crafts I enjoy). It's fast. Sometimes I can only work on a project for a few minutes while I'm waiting on the timer to ding or trying to get tired enough to fall asleep and I can SEE progress on a crochet pattern in as little as five minutes. It's cheap. I mean, you can spend a fortune on yarn, but you don't have to and hooks are cheap and you only need about 15 to do absolutely anything and if you aren't interested in thread crochet, you can get by on 10.

I have, ever-so-recently decided that I may, at some point in time, be slightly interested in knitting. Mostly because the only real issue I have with crochet is that it is very difficult to do something solid. It's either lacy or it's a very, very boring string of sc. I love the lacy, but I have recently found myself looking at knitted hats and sweaters in stores and thinking about how I wish I could make something that substantial. Without gnawing through my wrist, that is.

Do any of you knitters have any ideas on good teaching books? I did the 4-H thing when I was in elementary school and I am not going that route again.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Angel Song

My work computer is back up and running. It has only been a week and a half for Dell's next day service to kick in and I had to do half the work myself, but it's here, it's running. I am looking at my beautiful, non-headache-inducing flat screen monitor and twirling my trackball mouse and seeing my baby-girls' faces on my wallpaper and screensaver. (There's also all the very important work that I don't have to recreate from scratch on my hard-drive that I have reclaimed.) Life is good.

I have been without this machine, without my whole office (being relegated to the file room where the only free computer lives) for so long I had forgotten the chatter from the hall, the handiness of having my things in the same room with me and the joy I get from seeing my framed pictures of my kids on my desk.

It's funny how the little things make you happiest.

In other news, hold onto your horses because you have a very crafty end of the week coming up. I fully intend to post What's in My Crochet Bag this week and I have a crochet conundrum I'm saving for tomorrow. You'll be amazed, astonished and agog. Unless you're like my husband and hate all things crafty, then you'll be bored witless.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Please, Sir, May I Have Some Wait?

This morning was Dr. Tuesday in our world. Maren had a follow-up about her ear infection. It cleared up beautifully and there is no reason to think she'll go deaf. Yet. I asked her about the rash (did I not tell you guys about the rash - Oh well -)

Maren got a rash last week. I have never had first hand experience with food allergies, so, you know, I kinda don't expect them. So, after we took Maren to the Dr. about the ear infection and got that straightened out, I asked if I could start her on stage 1 foods since she REFUSES to eat cereal.

So... about the time she started amoxicillin for the first time ever, we gave her bananas. Like idiots. So, she broke out in a head to toe rash and we debated. Is it the antibiotic or is it the bananas? Have you ever met someone allergic to bananas? Is that possible?

So, we took her off the bananas and left her on the amox, but then we were done with the amox and we still didn't know.

Back on track now - I asked the Dr. and she thinks it was a viral rash. A viral rash? I've never heard of such a thing. After some googling, I think they just don't know. It does look like some of the pictures listed as "viral rash" and like none of the pictures listed as "allergic reaction." So, maybe. All I know, is we are trying sweet potatoes next.

Then I scooted myself to my Dr. for the appointment of which we do not speak. I won't go into any detail, because that would be speaking of that of which we do not speak and I might die. But there is blood testing in my future, so that's no fun.

Here's my whininess for today: I took a book. A book I am desperately trying to finish before Wednesday evening. And I had practically no waiting. It was ridiculous. The pediatrician took me early, the Dr. of whom we don't speak took me early. I had no reading time and I am 60 pages into a 300 page book and I will only have possibly an hour to read tonight and no time tomorrow.

Why is it that if I forget my book I have to wait 7 hours while the Dr. performs 11 emergency surgeries, but if I remember it, I spend 19 seconds in the waiting room? I guess it seems silly to complain about not having to wait, but you know, I'm a crazy-busy person. With lots of crap to accomplish in a day. When I am off work, waiting in a Dr's. office, I like to wait. It's about the only time I ever get to do that. Just sit, with no one asking me for a cup of milk or a file found or to maybe have some clean underwear this century. No one asking me for anything, insipid TV playing quietly in the background and a book. Does life really get any better than the waiting room at the Dr.'s for a mom?

So, then, that begs the question: When did I turn into the weird kind of person who likes to wait? I'm impatient, so that just doesn't seem to make sense. And further, is there a way to tell the office staff that you are in no hurry and they could feel free to bump someone who is (like that lady who never gets off her cell phone or the one who had to bring all five kids with her) ahead of you?

"Miss? I appreciate that you are running ahead of schedule today, but do you think I could sit out here by the fountain and listen to Regis and Kelly and read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies for a little while longer? Not too long, I do have to go to work at some point, but for ten or fifteen more minutes? Would that be alright?"

Friday, May 15, 2009

Not Sleeping

As my faithful readers may have figured out by now, I am not a happy camper when I don't get enough sleep. I am not an "average" adult. Average adults get 6-7 hours of sleep a night and function quite spectacularly. I get 7-8 hours a night and if I don't, hide. You might want to consider wearing clothes that match the wallpaper if I was on the 7 side of that.

I wasn't always like this. I used to survive just fine on 5 or 6 hours of sleep. I once spent an entire day touring Windsor and Oxford with just 45 minutes of sleep the night, er early morning before.

But, alas, I grew old. Old and tired. Now, I love my sleep, I obsess over sleep, I revel in sleep. But for the past two weeks, my sleep has been limited. Instead of 7-8 hours a night, I have been getting who-knows-how-much-because-I-only-sleep-in-fits-and-starts. I go to sleep, then I wake because the baby is crying, then I go back to sleep and then I wake and have to use the bathroom, then I go back to sleep and then I wake because Brynna's had a nightmare, then I go back to sleep and... Oh, you get the picture. Additionally, my body has decided to wake every morning at five just because it can. My clock tells me it's five, the dark between the curtains tells me it's five, but my body says nope, not going back to sleep until at least 5:40. Why 5:40? Because the alarm goes off at 5:45. Why does the alarm go off at 5:45? Because it takes The Husband 45 minutes to get out of bed.

And so, I am crabby. Constantly. I can only complain, it seems. Every little thing sends me off the deep end and I want to strangle the next high-pitched voice having, cute and cuddly, absent parented cartoon character that graces my TV. Even the ones that normally don't annoy me. Okay, so imagining Wubbzy broken and in a pool of blood is not entirely unusual for me, but wishing death on Toot and Puddle kinda is.

I want my old self back. I want to not care what's on the before-bedtime-TV as long as I have a good book. I want to not start trying to put my kids to bed the minute we walk in the door. I want to not throw eye-daggers at my husband for asking for the ten million and ninth time if I'm okay. Okay? Okay? Do I look okay? I will never again be okay? Do you want to know why I'm not okay? Because you keep freakin' asking me, that's why.

And I know how to get the old me back. Ten hours. A ten hour night. With no interruptions, no light, no alarm, no crying baby or scared preschooler, no freaking out because she's afraid of storms dog. It's what I call a catch up night. And I need one. When, oh, when, will I receive my next catch up night? Oh, I'm thinking on Maren's 18th birthday...

In bloggy news, I will eventually get back to my Friday "What's in my Crochet Bag." The sad, sad truth is that ever since I sewed on that sweater sleeve wrong side out, I haven't touched a hook. I am too frustrated to take the sleeve off and I am too stubborn to start on a new project when that one is soooo close to getting done. I probably have, like ten hours in that sweater and I could seriously finish it in one more, fixed sleeve and all, but oh, please, don't make me touch it. The good news is that it's freakin' hot and ridiculously humid, so I won't need said sweater until October, at least. So, I am just going to bury it at the bottom of the basket and move on.

I have patterns waiting for chemo hats for charity, a market bag because I think I'm the only person on Earth who still doesn't have one, a piece of fillet work for a wedding present and dishcloths, lots of dishcloths. Also, I have a pattern for a crocheted flower girl basket. Brynna has not been asked to be in any weddings, but I believe I have to make it, just because it's so disgustingly cute.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Hobbled by Annie in Misery

Monday, my computer at work blew up. I have tried not to discuss it here, because it really shouldn't affect my personal world all that much, right? Right?

Monday I had hope that this problem would be solved quickly and efficiently by a team of dogooders from Dell. I went home early, expecting resolution on Tuesday. On Tuesday, I was quickly put in my place. There is no resolution, crazy workin' lady, you are screwed.

The part that caused the total meltdown of all that is good and holy in my work life is on back order. It should be recieved by the technician by 6 p.m. today. Which means that tomorrow morning said technician will call and schedule a time to come fix my computer. (How about yesterday, is yesterday good for you?) I think that in my head but on the phone I will be a blubbering mass of "Whenever is good for you, I don't eat lunch and I work until midnight, just please, please, please come."

Tuesday I worked without a computer and today I am on the slowest computer still functioning. There is a lag in my typing. MY TYPING!! This post will probably take me 45 minutes and I should be working, but my head will be exploding soon and then my lack of gainful employment will be blissfully unimportant.

I likened yesterday to being to without a leg. Sure, I wasn't totally helpless, but damn it made life hard. Today is like being hobbled by Annie in Misery. In the movie, I think she just bashes his kneecap in with a sledgehammer. In the book, it is much, much more brutal. I read it about 17 times over when I was a teenager just trying to make sense of all those painful sounding words. (And I didn't grow up to be a serial killer, so there.)

Being hobbled is better than losing a leg, because, Hey, you've got your leg. But it's worse, too. Because you think you can do things and then you find out you can't. You know you can't jump on a trampoline, but you think you might be able to half crawl out of that bedroom you're locked in. But then, you can't. It's a little of a tease, I guess.

I am being teased by my access to the internet, by my ability to print and type, by my having a keyboard thingy in front of me. But I can't do things. I can't accomplish things that are locked in my email or my hard drive. I can't listen to Pandora because this computer pre-dates speakers or some such nonsense.

My boss is afraid of me. She has never seen me frustrated before and today, I am frustrated in spades. She is worried about what will happen tomorrow. So am I. When you wish upon your star tonight, spare a wish for me. Wish that the guy calls bright and early as I am walking through the door tomorrow and promises me he'll be here by nine. 'Cause, what do you know, he developed that teleportation device.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Kids' Songs and Not-So-Kids' Songs

Before I had Brynna, a friend of mine had a baby. He told me the story of standing in his wife's hospital room, holding his tiny new son and singing to him. He immediately realized that he didn't know any kid's songs and he ended up singing Christmas songs to the baby for hours.

I laughed at him. Mercilessly. I mean, really, how do you not know kids' songs? Twinkle, Twinkle, anyone? Or Rock-a-Bye Baby? Is this really even possible.

Then my precious Brynna was born. I knew kids' songs. I had kids' songs coming out of my ears. But one fateful night at three a.m. I discovered something: Kids' songs suck!! Not because they are cutesy and mostly meaningless, but because they are short. They are 30 seconds and then over and the long ones are annoying (think Little Bunny Foo-Foo or 99 Bottles of Whatever). So, I sang something else.

The song that popped into my head that night was "Friend of the Devil" by the Grateful Dead. I am not a Deadhead (not that there's anything wrong with that) but Counting Crows (aahhh marry me Adam Duritz, what, I'm already married. Crap.) had done a cover and I had been listening to it long enough to know all the words. Also, it was slow. I changed the name in the middle of the song to Sweet Brynna-Kate (I can't even remember what the name is because I've been singing it that way for four years now - the wonders of Google tell me it's Anne Marie.)

After a few reprisals of the chorus, I moved right into "American Pie" by Don McClean. I think that night I might have also done Lisa Loeb's "Stay" and Tricia Yearwood's "She's in Love with the Boy." 'Cause that's how I roll.

After that first fateful night, when I realized that baby's are listening to your voice and won't be permanently damaged by lyrics about borrowing money from the devil or helter skelter, I branched out. I started singing any little song that came into my head. If there was outright bad language, I would hum through it or substitute another word in the fashion of bad voice-over-cable-television dubbing.

That was kinda fun after a while. I started challenging myself. Country Joe McDonald became my singing Brynna to sleep friend. It kept me awake to be constantly thinking about what was coming and how I could change it to something funnier.

It was addictive and I finally just started changing all the lyrics. Well, not all, it wouldn't really be fun if you coulnd't recognize the song anymore and if you have ever heard me sing, you'll know that lyric recognition is your only hope.

My favorite is a little ditty about peaches to the tune of "I Want to Be Sedated." I mean, really, who doesn't love The Ramones and babies? Why not mix them together?

Twenty-twenty-four bites to go,
I wanna eat some peaches,
Nothing to do Nowhere to go-ho,
I wanna eat some peaches,
So hurry, hurry, hurry, get me to my bib,
Hurry, hurry, hurry before I need the crib,
Who-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho,
Bam-bam-bam-bam, Ba-bam-bam-bam-bam,
I wanna eat some peaches.

Thank you, thank you, no applause necessary. (Incedentally, one might wonder why I don't just sing that Peaches song by POTUSA, since it's already like made up and stuff, but if you are really asking that then I have to assume that you have never met me in person and don't understand that I think the hard way is FUN!)

I have, in fact, come to believe it is my duty as a mother to introduce my precious girls to the world of classic rock in this way. We sing everything from Aretha to Bad Religion, from Skynard to Wham. And then we throw in some Cash. There are also lessons when I get tired of singing. The other night Maren learned all about Nirvana during her bath. I'm not sure I convinced her that Courtney Love isn't all bad, but someday I'll sing her "Celebrity Skin" and "Doll Parts."

Because, really, if I don't teach them this stuff, who will? This is not the kind of stuff that I want them learning on the playground.

Friday, May 8, 2009

Grocery Shopping with Pre-Schoolers

There is nothing that warms your heart more than being waited on.

Yesterday we had our Mother's Day Luncheon at the school. Brynna gave me gifts of art, brought my food to me and placed it on the table and washed my dirty silverware. Good times. Seriously, I can't get her to throw dirty silverware in the general direction of the sink at home, but at school, she walks to a sink of hot soapy water, washes it with a cloth, rinses it and places it in a dish strainer. Are they drugging her?

I digress. One of my gifts (other than a glimpse of what life could be like if I were as disciplined as Montessori) was a story. A personal narrative, if you will. Brynna wrote me a story about her favorite thing to do with her mom. She drew me a picture to go with it and glued on a photo of herself. It was so sweet. I cried. Part of the picture she drew was of our dog when her ear exploded this winter. Again, good times.

Guess what Brynna's favorite thing to do with her mom is! Guess!! Guess!!! Is it Mommy-daughter date nights, story time at the library, Pizza Hut, the zoo, taking the longcut home? Nope. It's the grocery store. The freakin' miserable, hell-on-Earth, please-don't-make-me-take-one-of-the-kids, how-long-do-I-have-to-stay-here grocery. Seriously, who likes the damn grocery?

My kid. That's who. Apparently, watching mom compare the generic granola bars to the brand name ones that we have a coupon for is hella entertaining. Apparently, this is big fun for tiny children. Apparently, she likes watching me freak out about the cost of formula and curl up in a shivering, blubbering ball when we run out of shampoo.

I was mentally ranting and raving about this turn of events, realizing that I was going to have to take her with me more often, thinking that maybe I should be teaching some math and home economics lessons while I'm staring at the myriad varieties and brands of canned corn.

And then I remembered something. I used to like the grocery too. I used to be her. I used to hope and pray that Grandmommy would wait to go until I got home from school. That I would get to tag along and ride on the cart and pick out the cereal and maybe, just maybe get a treat. That I would get to poke my fingers through the cart and touch the frosty outside of the ice cream carton and see if I could pick up the big bag of dog food. My favorite thing was when she would forget something and send me all by myself back across the store to get it.

So, I was freakin' insane too. And I'm going to develop an eye twitch from taking her to the grocery, but I guess I'm going to do it.


Let's go shopping, yo.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Long Drive into the Past

Today on the way home from our Mother's Day luncheon at Montessori (details on that tomorrow), Brynna asked me if we could take a longcut home, a pretty one. We were already past the point where changing paths home is easy, so I traveled a little further up the main road and then turned right on the High School Way. That's not the real name of the road, in fact the real name is Turkey Foot, which makes you wonder who in the freakin' world would name a road after a spindly part of a stupid animal.

Anyway, in high school, I had two friends who lived in this general area. I traveled these roads so often I could almost do it in my sleep. A few times I may have tried. I passed the railroad tracks where my best friend's car stalled making us all think we were going to be crushed to death by a few tons of locomotive. I cruised past the house with the ducks who, for some reason, would much rather hang out in the road, than on the pond ten feet from the road. I turned left at the old gray horse (how old is that horse, anyway?). I went around the curve where I dreamed I died. (Ironically enough, I was almost hit in that curve, which just serves to prove that dreams can come true, even years and years after you have them.)

I drove through two culverts. If you've never driven through a culvert, I don't know how to describe the activity to you except that Brynna calls it through the bear cave.

Then, finally, I found the thing that literally stopped me in my tracks. That's right, the car stopped dead on the road, as if of its own volition. That blue mailbox. My friend, Missy's farm. I couldn't see the house because it's about seven miles off the road (I may be exaggerating, I have no idea). I could see the house right on the other side of the driveway that has been falling down since the first time I visited the farm (16 years ago) and still hasn't fallen. I saw the curve in the road that always signalled leaving society behind to me. But mostly, I saw that huge, bright blue mailbox.

It was all I could do to not to drive up that long windy driveway and see the house.

I committed my first act of arson there. It was an accident. Missy's mom, known to the whole world as Momma-Do, had a beautiful five story birdhouse in the back yard. It had a snake in it. We knew that the snake would scare off the birds and eat the ones that weren't scared off, so we wanted to get the snake out, so Momma-Do could watch the birds in her beautiful birdhouse. We set fireworks in the birdhouse, the snake slithered out, and we decapitated it with a garden hoe.

Then Momma-Do offered to take us to town to rent a movie. Movies are apparently distracting. We left and when we returned a pile of ash was perched atop the fence post where the birdhouse had previously lived. We were terrified, depressed and astounded all at the same time. We all stared and then turned as one unit (there were probably four or five of us there) to look at Momma-Do. We expected her to look horrified, to burst into tears, to call all of our mothers and make us wait in the driveway until they got there.

Instead, she laughed. I will never know how upset she really was. But I do know that she looked at all of us and knew instantly that we hadn't done it on purpose and that we were more sorry than words could express and she forgave us all in a single second.

That's just one of a hundred memories about that farm. About that house, that world that Missy lived in and we got to visit. Some of them are funny (burning Barbie at the stake) some are upsetting (everyone leaving me sleeping outside when they heard wolves - I still haven't forgotten that crap, girls), and some are just ridiculous (the flying cat in Wuthering Heights). But they are all a part of me, of how I ended up the way I did. Blame her, in other words.

I only paused for a moment in the road, but it was long enough to remember everything, to feel the familiar pull of that gravel driveway and to wish, if only for a second that I was sixteen again, driving a SkyHawk and dreaming of getting away from this town forever. I'm so glad that dream never came true.

This is Sharlene, Greg, Roy, Nathan, me, Lisa and Laura and Roy's bug, George at Missy's. I guess Missy is taking the picture. Don't ask why we are dressed like this. The only thing I remember are those yellow John Lennon glasses.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Mother's Day Hints

I have been reading various mom's wish lists for Mother's Day. Mostly my family knows what makes me happy (flowers, of the potted variety, books, yarn, watches, cheap jewelry, shoes...)

But I thought I might post a list of what ALL moms would love someone to invent and produce in honor of Mother's Day. All you geniuses, get on that.

1. Infant Babble Translator (IBT) - Not just so we can ooh and ahh over how cute it was when she said "Mommy woo hair shiny" but so we can tell why the heck they're crying, whether on not they feel sick and why they have suddenly decided to never eat cereal again.

2. Tranquility Bubble - This state-of-the-art plastic bubble is equipped with a comfy chair, a cozy blanket and the book of your choice. Guaranteed to not allow in sound, sight or smell of children or husbands.

3. The Caffeine IV - for when we are too tired from being up all night with the crying baby to even drink.

4. The Perfect TV Show - A show with no sex, no cussing and no violence that is both interesting to Mom and compelling to kids.

5. The Laundromatic - Yes, I really do appreciate the invention of the washing machine and how much it has revolutionized life (especially for women) but I want more. I want my laundry sorted and folded automatically, too. And quietly, please.

6. Artificial Sleep - We have all accepted years ago that we will lose sleep over our children. Now, we want to replace it. Preferably in pill form.

7. That Brain Computer Interface - We've been promised this thing through Sci-Fi novels for generations and still no dice. I want to be able to search through a database all inside my mind and say, "Hi Sara! How's Lilli doing?" without totally stumbling through, Oh, you're Brynna's friend's mom. Which friend, which friend... Who are you woman!?!

8. World Peace - Sure peace is good for everyone, but just think how much easier life would be for moms if we didn't have to explain violence to our kids. If we were never again asked, "Well, why don't they just stop fighting and be nice to each other?"

9. The teleportation device - This is another object we have been promised for generations that we still don't have. Just think, not only would a teleportation device free up that 2-3 hours a day most moms spend in their cars, but it would also eliminate the sentence, "Mom, are we there yet?" from the world's vocabulary forever.

10. Teenager Angst Translator (TAT) - Much like the popular IBT, the TAT lets you know what's really important in all that prattle. It also translates that annoying slang into real words and has a special alert signal for when your teenagers are speaking to you in special disrespectful teenage slang.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

May

5 Things I Love About May:

1. Mother's Day. Although I truly believe that one pitiful day is not enough to truly appreciate your mother, it'll do, pig. It'll do.

2. My mom's birthday. See above, I don't have to limit myself to one day. Neener, neener.

3. Flowers. May is the month in Kentucky where everything and it's sister is in bloom. The streets are more colorful in May than on parade days.

4. Open windows. I hate to be hot and therefore, air conditioning is my best friend. But I much prefer open windows to let in fresh air and breeze and having the inside temp. match the outside.

5. Memorial Day. The first official holiday of summer. We usually don't do anything, but it's still a nice day off work.

5 Things I Hate About May

1. It's the gateway drug for summer. You've been cooped up and miserable cold all winter and here comes May with it's pretty, pretty flowers and pleasant temperatures and crazy storms. And you start to think that maybe you're ready for summer, maybe you'll enjoy summer this year. And then comes June with it's 99% humidity and 100 degree weather. And you realize that May broke your heart all over again.

2. Mother's Day. It's different when you're the kid, but being the mother on Mother's Day isn't all it's cracked up to be. You have to go to all the Mother's Day special things and you have to look all nice for all of them. You have to arrange everything and remind your husband to help your kids buy or make a present.

3. Travel Season. I work in a tourist trap, so this is the time of year when I have to check in at the guard shack and fight traffic and wonder who the heck comes here for fun anyway.

4. Travel Season. May is the month that reminds me every freakin' year that I can't afford to take a vacation of my own, but I have to deal with all the idiots who can.

5. The end of school. I still haven't figured out what Brynna is going to do when school is over. Babysitter? Camp? Hop around the county? Who knows? Not me, that's who.